John woke up and could write poetry.
His shopping list, that morning, was perfectly aprominated; filled with things that fit in order, sat in place like Stonehenge. And when he received his receipt, he wrote a sonnet on the reverse.
Later, that evening, he filled in the little boxes of his income tax return with an epic. He sent it away, and the IRD never came after him.
People began to notice John's new-found gifts. He left couplets in the dust on their cars. And while people were at first alarmed to see him scribbling with his finger on their Jeep's back window, they would never rub the words away.
Then John stopped writing. He took to stopping people in the street, clutching their shoulder and holding them in place. He would mumble to his feet - sometimes a line, sometimes a stanza or two - and then let the stranger go on walking.
Over the course of a few weeks, John stopped talking. He would stare at things still, and his eyes held the same intensity, but it was as if he couldn't bring himself to expression.
The liquid had run out of him, you see.